The Love of Elves
by Ellon Melethril
Summary: Legolas and Gimli arrive in Rivendell to find a disquieted Aragorn. Soon, Arwen involves her fellow Elf in a plot to mend the king's spirits. *Aragorn/Legolas slash*
1. A Warm Welcome

FANARTISTS: We love fanart. Saying we adore it would not be using too strong a word. Our desperate plea is for all of you to read this story and if any moment – any moment at all – captures your imagination, then to please, please draw, paint, sketch, photomanip, or sculpt it. The art will belong to you; all we want is the honor of putting it on our site and linking it with this story. All art will be accepted and displayed regardless of medium, so please contact us. We truly hope that one of you will be inspired.

Disclaimers: We don't own them. All characters belong to the brilliant J.R.R. Tolkien or the splendid Peter Jackson and Newline Cinema – in either case, that's not us.

Warnings: The rating will be climbing steadily higher. This is heading very purposefully toward slash and an NC-17 rating (those portions to be posted on the authors' homepage), so if you don't like that sort of thing, then don't get hooked now. For the slash fans, there is also het involved as Tolkien established Arwen and Aragorn as a pair and we had to adhere to that.

Authors' Note: Ellon Melethril is the combined writing mind of Maeve and Lemur. As great fans of both Tolkien and slash, we set out to write a slash story that was as canon-friendly and Tolkien-friendly as humanly possible; this is the result. These events take place in October, three years after Aragorn's crowning (the year 3021 or Shire Reckoning 1421, for those detail-hungry Tolkien fans). Every attempt was made to portray the correct Sindarin translations, but when we couldn't find the right word, Gaelic was substituted - we noticed a great similarity between the languages - so all you Sindarin-purists, be aware. This adheres to both book and movie verse, but the descriptions are purely from the movie because why describe other fantastically attractive men when the movie provided perfect examples? Enjoy! Please review - and create artwork. :)

THE LOVE OF ELVES

By Ellon Melethril

~A Warm Welcome~

Bearing easily both Dwarf and Elf of his passengers, Arod steadily climbed the rocky pass. Legolas held to him loosely, heeding that the stallion needed little steering, and listened with amusement to the restrained grumbling of Gimli behind him. If his quiet growls were reliable indicators, the Dwarf had been unhappy for quite some time and now his elven companion was just waiting until the grumbling would no longer suffice.

"Stop! Legolas, stop here," he demanded. "We are near now and I would walk."

"Diola ile, Arod," whispered Legolas, and the horse obediently slowed to a stop. Gimli gracelessly swept his leg around and slid off the back of the steed, falling instantly to his backside when his short legs proved unready to support him.

"I was beginning to believe that you had grown accustomed to riding, Gimli," the Elf teased, stepping fluidly to the ground. He extended a hand to help his smaller friend back to his feet.

"Tolerant, not accustomed," Gimli corrected, standing and rubbing his sore seat with a weathered hand. "And not for hours on end up a winding mountain path. We cannot be far from Rivendell now and I will only slightly delay our arrival by indulging my legs."

"Very slightly, and I believe Arod will appreciate your indulgence as well." Legolas joined his companion in walking up the rocky course. "Arod, khila amin." The horse complied, following the pair, happily snuffling the moss-covered rocks.

"This way is quieter than I remember it," Gimli commented.

Legolas looked up the path, noting the lack of traveling Elves or arriving visitors, such as themselves. When he had last mounted this walk, dozens of travelers of every race had been swarming through the city, with even four hobbits among their numbers. But now, he and Gimli represented the whole of the traffic.

"Since Lord Elrond's journey to the Undying Lands, I think Rivendell will have grown much quieter," he acknowledged. "For as always was with him, where he goes, many of my kind will follow."

"As the most wondrous already has," Gimli added sadly.

"It will be good to see Aragorn once again," Legolas stated, quickly drawing Gimli's mind from where he was sure it had gone to think mournful thoughts of Lady Galadriel's departure. "I wonder what revelries Rivendell holds for the newly-crowned King of Men."

"Undoubtedly some airy elf-nonsense." Gimli laughed under his breath.

"Undoubtedly, but I was wondering specifically what kind." Legolas smirked at his friend's jibe. Rounding the bend of the mountain, the expanse of Rivendell suddenly appeared before them, nestled between the cliffs. "Ah! You have expertly chosen your breaking point, Gimli; our destination lies just ahead," he declared.

Legolas admired once again the aesthetics of his mountain-dwelling cousins' architecture. It had always looked to him as if the city had never been built, but rather had simply grown. Rooms, balconies, gardens, and corridors – all had seamlessly ripened, timber emerging from rock, as the waterfalls and rivers had continued flowing around them. The air was thin and the winds a slice too bold for a wood-elf's taste, but the flourishing trees and thundering waterfalls made such imperfections nearly invisible.

Within the hour, they neared the first bridges of the Last Homely House. Seeing the travelers approach, one of King Elessar's stable boys rushed toward them, preparing to accept Arod. Legolas patted the horse's flanks as he passed by and turned his attentions to the boy. "Please tell King Elessar and Queen Arwen that Legolas of the Wood of Greenleaves and Gimli, Elf-friend, have arrived," he requested regally. Nodding, the boy rushed after Arod, who was already heading toward the stables.

"Legolas," Gimli said. "I would prefer you allow me to choose when I affix that title to my name."

"Why? Is it inaccurate? Are there times when you are not my friend?"

"In that I think I have little choice," Gimli grumbled fondly. "No, I am always your friend, but I would not always choose to declare it so loudly upon my arrival." His wry smile shone through his beard as he peered up at his towering companion.

"As we were presenting ourselves in an Elvenhome, I thought the title appropriate," Legolas replied, smiling brightly. "But I shall from here on let your designation be at your discretion."

He looked about at the mountain city, his ears detecting the waterfall still distant. Breathing in deeply, he filled his lungs with the crisp air. "Come, Gimli, son of Glóin, let us find a spot of sun. It has been years since we were last here and I long to reacquaint myself with the trees of Rivendell. And you have, no doubt, missed the rocks."

Gimli raised a bushy eyebrow. "All I require is a seat, and that I will find more readily from a rock," he countered.

"Legolas! Gimli!"

Both travelers turned to see the handsome face of King Elessar coming toward them. "I thought I had heard visitors, but I did not dare to hope they would be the two of you."

Aragorn welcomed them cheerily, but Legolas was unable to immediately return the expression. Though his look was outwardly happy, somehow, he sensed, the king had grown weary.

"We found our travels took us Rivendell-way," Gimli said.

Aragorn turned to Legolas and the Elf quickly supplanted a warm smile for the concern that had cloaked his features. "It is good to see you, Legolas," Aragorn stated, shaking the archer's hand and clamping his other firmly to his shoulder in their usual warrior's salutation.

"And you as well, Aragorn," Legolas said, peering keenly into the man's striking eyes, as if he might glean the cause of the change from within those depths.

"Arwen is walking in the gardens, else she would be here to greet you as well," Aragorn continued, oblivious of the inspection. "And, I fear, at Arwen's absence and Elrond's departure, it falls to me to make you feel welcome in Rivendell. We have food and drink ready for weary travelers and seats far more comfortable than rocks, Gimli."

As Aragorn lead them toward one of Rivendell's more welcoming halls, Legolas stole glances at his friend, seeking out the source of this intangible transformation of spirit. His hair was grayer, his leonine face more lined, but mortals aged that way, or so Legolas had observed. No, this change was deeper and far more elusive.

***

On the heels of the messenger bearing glad tidings, Arwen quickly climbed the steps to the balcony, desiring a better vantage point from which to begin her search. She scanned the people below, peering over the courtyards and gardens for a flash of golden hair that would stand out even when the city was at its most brilliant. And now, it certainly was not.

Far below, she spied what she sought: the tall, lithe figure of a fair-haired Elf. Beside him, she was far from surprised to find the dark, mottled form of a Dwarf.

Hurrying down the stairs once more, she chastised herself for indulging in a sorrowful walk through the gardens. Their visitors had arrived hours ago and had she not been thinking futilely over her concerns, she might have already had Legolas' agreement upon a solution. The wind blew at her heels, pushing her toward the travelers and feeling decidedly unfamiliar on the bare skin at the back of her neck. She had not been often in Rivendell since adopting the upswept, bound style of her royal title and it still felt strangely unyielding amid the smooth sensations of her father's dwelling.

She traced her way through the usual paths toward the garden courtyard where she had seen the unlikely pair. Legolas would be able to help, she was certain. She thought more highly of him than of any other Elf, aside from her father.

When she had met him, she had instantly known him to be the fairest of her kindred. Her young heart had swelled at his smile and her cheeks had flushed pink at the gentle point of his ear. The purity of his features and his blond locks aided his appeal, but it was the strength of his mind and the bravery of his heart that had made Arwen give him a new title in her mind. In actuality, he held clout as the prince of Mirkwood, or the Wood of Greenleaves as it was happily now called, but Arwen had long since considered him the Prince of Elves.

When she had heard that he, of all the Elves, had joined the fellowship to destroy the One Ring, she had secretly and silently rejoiced. In the years since the terrible duty of the company had been fulfilled, he had only grown in her estimation. It was he who dared to befriend a most worthy dwarf. It was he who ignored his own calling to the Sea to remain with his loved-ones while they still needed him. And it was he who had earned Aragorn's love, friendship and trust.

She knew him to be worthy of her husband's esteem, and she could give no creature – Man, Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit or Wizard – a higher compliment than that.

Arwen approached the garden, happy to find Legolas and Gimli had not moved. Her sensitive eyes and ears detected them long before she neared them. The archer sat on the stone wall, hefting the Dwarf's cumbersome axe in his slender hands. 

"There is no delicacy is such a weapon, Gimli," Legolas said. His voice was genuine, but clearly aimed at goading his companion. "No mastery is required. It is no more than a common club." He dropped the weapon brusquely back into his friend's grip.

Gimli held the dwarf-axe tightly, his calloused knuckles whitening with the intensity of his grip. "_Battle is not delicate, Master Elf," he growled. "And a great deal of mastery is required to properly wield an axe. Were you caught in a field full of angry Orcs armed only with this 'common club' you would not live to touch your quiver of arrows once again."_

"And I would take great interest in seeing you handle a bow on that same field, my friend," Legolas replied, arching a brow. 

Gimli's bearded face reddened in counterfeit fury and Arwen did not doubt that he would have let fly a challenge for yet another friendly duel had her approach not interrupted him. Upon seeing her, the Dwarf kneeled gracefully on one knee, his axe at his side as if pledging his service in war. "Queen Arwen," he said reverentially.

"I would not have you kneel, Gimli," Arwen refused. "Not when I have come in friendship and bearing no adornments of my title."

Lumbering to his feet once more, Gimli still bowed his head in respect. "Your beauty is an adornment of your title, my lady," he insisted sweetly.

"Nay, rather it is an adornment of her race, Master Dwarf," Legolas disagreed with mock sincerity. "For all Elven females are pleasing to the eye and among them, Arwen is nothing special."

Gimli shot his friend an upbraiding look, but Arwen felt solely pride at the barb. Legolas only jested with those he loved most deeply, of which Gimli himself was ready proof. However, the displeasure blooming on the dwarf's coarse face showed he did not interpret it so, or more likely that he felt such affection was too rough for the soft woman standing before him.

"Do not glare so fiercely, Gimli," she said. "Legolas only meant that I pale in comparison with fair creatures such as Queen Galadriel."

At the Lady of Lórien's name, Gimli's expression cooled and an adoring serenity glazed over his thick features. "She is beauty in its purest form. I should very much like to see her again one day."

"And perhaps you shall, Gimli," his friend interjected.

"If that was truly your meaning, Legolas, I cannot disagree," Gimli said. "But all living creatures pale in the light of her so it does not cheapen my compliments, Lady Arwen."

"I would have it be no other way," Arwen replied. "It would be a great burden to be the fairest of the Fair Folk and I believe only Lady Galadriel has the strength to bear such a weight."

"It is hers to carry, though she no longer dwells on these Shores," Gimli agreed readily. "But she feels no strain so strong is her carriage, though her shoulders be delicate and narrow."

"To inspire Dwarves to poetry must also be a tremendous burden," Legolas interrupted, clearly familiar with his friend's eager admiration of the Lady of the Galadhrim. "Should we not resume this ever-engrossing conversation another time and now seek to discover why the reasonably fair Arwen has sought us out amidst the gardens?"

Gimli shot Legolas another dark look. "Pray continue, most beautiful Arwen," he stated suavely, showing off before his bold companion. "Please tell us how we might serve you."

"In truth, dearest Gimli, I have come wishing to speak to Legolas alone," she said, surprised at her own boldness. But then, she had noticed she did tend to become bolder around Legolas, as if following his roguish example.

"Ah! So you have come seeking my absence," Gimli declared brightly. "That I will gladly give. My mind is not suited this morning to endure the wit of bothersome Elves." He lifted his dwarf-axe from the ground, preparing to depart. "Good day, Arwen."

"Good day, Gimli."

"Legolas, when you wish to apologize, you shall know where to search for me," he informed severely.

"I shall, Master Gimli," Legolas replied, "beneath a canopy of trees, gazing at the stars."

Gimli muttered angrily to himself and trudged off down the path, scowling, but Arwen knew, despite his grumbling, that he would sooner part with his beloved axe than his bothersome Elf. Legolas watched his friend depart, amusement and affection blended handsomely on his face.

Then, he turned to her, his expression saddening with compassion. "How have you been, Arwen? Gimli and I heard tell of Lord Elrond's passage 'cross the Seas."

"I think I grieve for him much as I would if he were dead, for our separation is just as permanent, but I flatter myself that I manage it well," she said. The memory of her father stung her heart even through the heavier worries cloaking it. "To the last, he wished I had never chosen as I did, but I do not regret my decision. Therefore, I choose to view this sorrow as ever narrowing the gap between my new mortal kinsmen and myself. Grief of eternal loss has long been theirs and though I miss him more than sometimes it seems my body can withstand, I welcome the opportunity to share this experience with Aragorn."

Lifting her eyes, she saw sympathy dulling Legolas' dazzling features. "But I have longed for company just such as yours, Legolas," she said, making great effort to brighten her own demeanor. "Last I heard, you and Gimli were exploring the wilds of Middle-earth, far beyond my reach, so how came you to be here?"

"During our travels we met a trio from the forest of Lórien bound for the West," came the ready account in Legolas' soothing, fluid tones. "The return of the Evenstar to Imladris is news on these Shores, even to those leaving them."

Arwen smiled brightly and it felt as though her face had not made such an expression in sincerity for weeks. Indeed, it was likely it had not. "I am glad that gossip roams so freely for it has brought two very welcome visitors to my door," she said.

"What is it you wish to discuss, Arwen the Fair?"

With that question, her anxiety returned in full. "I wish to discuss my lord Aragorn," she answered, watching concern darken Legolas' bright eyes.

"How fares the king?"

"Were he not king, he would perhaps fare better," she replied bleakly. "You have noticed a change in him as well?"

"I have," he said with a firm nod. "But the weather has been fair; I have never understood the emotional tides of Men. What is it you see?"

"He takes greatly to heart the hardships of the kingdom," she explained, sitting beside him on the short wall. "The people talk harshly of him and he cannot bring himself to accept it as merely the ebb of politics: when things are well, the king is loved; when things are ill, the king is blamed."

"He wishes always to be loved?" Legolas inquired perceptively.

"Yes, and he feels he must have failed them if they do not. He has become once again the uncertain Estel who doubted his readiness to rule…his worthiness of being loved."

She raised her eyes to Legolas knowing the gravity of her last words would not be lost on him. Not on an Elf, whose immortality could be dissolved by something Men so trivially called 'a broken heart.' 

"What would you have me do?" he asked firmly, his tone speaking of his willingness to comply with any request.

"Aragorn has always thought highly of Elves, this you know as well as I, Legolas. Were it not that the age of our race draws to a close, I believe he would have left the whole of Middle-earth in our hands and never have taken the throne; his admiration runs so deep. I fear the recent departure of my father has only served to increase his burden. He is now truly alone as King.

"I have reminded him that his actions have won the love of many Elves and the admiration of them all, but he does not feel it to be so," she uttered despondently. "Though I am an Elf, I am also his wife and he therefore believes I am bound to say, not the truth, but what I think he wants to hear."

He rested a comforting hand on her own. "We know what he is, you and I," she continued, her eyes looking searchingly into his. "We know he is the rightful and only king. We know he is no mere Man, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn." As she spoke his true name, admiration warmed her too-chilled heart and she was elated to see her own inspired adoration reflected in Legolas. "He is King Elessar of Gondor. We know this, Legolas."

"We do," Legolas conceded, "but how do we remind the man himself?"

"I have long thought of that," Arwen said, her voice strengthening as she neared her point. "He has not been sleeping, and for several months now he has denied my touch, which I find most distressing of all. There is comfort in contact and he refuses himself that comfort. I am his wife, so he can regard my touch as obligatory and sink further into his own fears and insecurities, but you, Legolas, you have no such obligation."

Understanding lighted in Legolas' eyes as he regarded her. There was no shock in his look, nor did Arwen expect to see any. "I offer myself willingly," he said sincerely, "but Arwen, I remind you that their ways are not ours. Mere comfort is to them indistinguishable from the possessive subtleties of the act. I fear I myself know too little about the ways of love among Men."

"It is the love of Elves I feel he needs," Arwen stated imploringly.

Legolas read her expression and nodded with resolve. "I will do all that you ask of me," he agreed loyally.

Arwen sighed, feeling as if a large part of her anxiety traveled out upon the exhalation of breath. This could not fail to work; such comfort radiated from the depths of Legolas' eyes, she could only imagine what wealth of it was to be had in the sinew and flesh of his body. And trustworthy whispers told her he was attentive and skilled at more than just archery.

Grasping his hand, she kissed his fingers gratefully. "You are wonderful, Legolas," she said, feeling tears of relief just behind her eyes.

"I have done nothing yet, Arwen. Save your praise," he laughed. "Forming this alliance was the least of your obstacles. What ideas have you?"

"I confess I need your help with that as well for I do not know what and how much should be planned for the week," Arwen uttered, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Then, let us take a turn about the gardens and see what we can devise." Legolas smiled, standing from the wall and extending his arm to her. "It's a lovely afternoon for conspiring."

***

To be continued….

Fanartists, we repeat: Please! Keep reading and let your imaginations run wild.


	2. The Shadow of the Past

~ _The Shadow of the Past ~_

Aragorn laid low, seeking out the faint trail in the sparse grass. "It continues up the hill," he informed, rising from the ground to level himself with his companions.

He rushed up the hillside, quickly seeking secure footing on each new moss-covered rock and stone. His blood pumped furiously through his body, thundering in his ears and pulsing through his limbs as he fought to stay ahead of the Elf close on his heels. Gimli struggled along behind them, showing a great deal of good humor for a Dwarf whose compact form was less inclined to running and climbing than either of his companions'.

Gimli and Legolas had been in Rivendell a week now and each day the three of them had chosen a trail at random and sought out its source. Aragorn was delighted by the utter pointlessness of the hunts: the opportunity to know members of the Fellowship far from a battlefield was a blessing for which he had never dared hope.

Legolas and Gimli, the friendship they formed even through the most trying and painful days against the Enemy, had been an unexpected light in the fog. Aragorn was especially glad to have become more acquainted with the Elven archer and was relieved to find that his merit did not crumble under closer scrutiny.

As a warrior, Legolas was fast, deadly and smart – the best kind of back up during an unexpected raid. As a friend, he was armed with spirit and wit as light and quick as his arrows.

Years had passed since the Three Hunters had traveled with such speed along terrain so rugged, and though he could feel the lethargy of kingship in his legs, Aragorn enjoyed the exertion. While his Ranger's mind busied itself finding a steady path among the loose rocks and slick moss, his monarch's mind could think on its troubles, but feel little of their weight.

Those first days had been a blur of mourning and celebration. So many had fallen in the dark days of Sauron, but bright days had at last arrived. He had claimed King Elessar as his name and the daughter of Elrond as his wife and the people of Gondor had rejoiced at his crowning.

Now, Aragorn realized he had been naïve; he had underestimated the damage and the speed at which it could be remedied. The darkness and destruction of Sauron had spread wide, devouring much of Middle-earth. Even the sheltered Shire of the hobbits had been ransacked and burned. No place had gone untouched.

The line of Stewards had cared admirably for the kingdom and his direct predecessor, Denethor, had valiantly overseen Gondor during many of its bleakest days. But he had only to slow the descent of darkness, not bring back the light.

In the provinces of Gondor, many fields still refused to grow and the creeks and rivers meant to nurture them still ran black. Every night the sun went down on a day of toil, only to rise to another. The people were exhausted and frustrated. They wished to be no longer reminded of the blight of Sauron, but every day was a memento of the power he had wielded over their lives and land.

Aragorn charged briskly up the path, willing his body's mounting fatigue to drive his mind and heart to distraction. He knew that ruling would not be easy and that healing would not be swift, but somehow, he felt he should have accomplished more, should have been more certain by now.

Any man could have done as he had these last three years. He was no different, no more commendable or capable than any of the race of Men. The Elves, he felt, were slowly relinquishing the care of Middle-earth into the hands of Men and at one time, he had felt himself worthy of being the figurehead, the specific Man to claim what they bestowed. But no longer. He wasn't even certain he deserved the daughter Lord Elrond had allowed to marry him.

"Aragorn," Legolas called.

"Lost the trail?" the Ranger asked, turning to see his friend paused in the shadow of the higher mountain tier. His lungs gulping in air, he trotted back to stand in the welcome shade, kicking aside a few of the wind-felled branches that littered the ground.

Legolas shook his head, his sharp eyes focused on the Dwarf still lumbering up the hillside. "I want to allow Gimli time to catch us."

Aragorn chuckled, taking the opportunity to calm his breathing – and ignore the irksome composure of the Elf beside him who seemed barely winded. Gimli's wheezing soon drowned out his own panting as the Dwarf made his laborious climb over the rocks. He came to a stop beside them, fighting valiantly to hide much of his own exhaustion.

"I would…rest here," he said between heaving breaths, leaning against the stone for support.

Legolas looked about the hollow, no doubt noting the pleasant brook slipping down the slope. "A good choice, Gimli," he declared. "This is a nice, airy spot for a break." Using an impossibly narrow branch as a makeshift ladder, he climbed up to the next mountain tier with enviable elven ease. Scanning the ground, he crouched atop the boulder just above Gimli's head, his eyes on the trail.

Aragorn leaned back on the cliff wall, feeling his breathing slow steadily. The Ranger in him shut off his tracking skills; he was perfectly contented to let Legolas bear the burden alone during such recreation. Closing his eyes, he focused his attention on the gentle murmur of the brook as it trickled through the rocks.

Even with his lungs thirsty for air and his heart pumping thunderously in his chest, Aragorn felt better now than he had in months and he did not doubt that was by particular elven design. It hadn't escaped his notice that whenever his mind turned once more to the troubles of his empire, either Arwen or Legolas had appeared to offer distraction.

It seemed he had enjoyed more of the splendors of Rivendell in the past week than he had in all his years of living there as a young man. Feasts, each more incredible than the last, filled every afternoon well into the evening and then always a concert of elvish songs and poems of which it was difficult to tire. He felt saturated, revived by the sounds, smells and tastes of the Elves.

With Arwen, he had walked through the gardens and gone riding in the mountains, much as they had done when he had first dared to court her. With Legolas, he had tracked rabbits and other game, and sparred with sword and long-knives, their fighting skills now free of the pressing concerns of Orcs and Rings of Power. But as much as he was enjoying the recreation, he felt there was intent beyond it, as if it were building to something.

More than once, he had spied Arwen and Legolas trading looks, as if keeping score. He knew they were planning something. What he didn't know was what.

Legolas stood tall once more, his perceptive ears listening to the sounds on the wind. Aragorn's cooling muscles twitched, ready to continue the hunt. He surveyed the ground around them, rediscovering the trail.

"If you two are so anxious," Gimli said, noting the awakening of his fellow hunters, "you may continue on without me. I have seen enough rabbits this week; I do not need to see this one."

Aragorn cocked an eye up at Legolas to see the Elf peering down at him. The Ranger grabbed the archer's outstretched hand, and with his help, hoisted himself atop the next rocky tier. In moments, the two were off, following the trail of an animal Aragorn was certain wasn't a rabbit this time, though it didn't much matter if it were.

***

To be continued….

Fanartists: stay with us. The truly visual extravaganzas are coming…


	3. Inside Information

~ Inside Information ~

Legolas' legs dangled high over the gardens as he sat on the windowsill, watching the wind blowing through the trees below him. Tapping his heels against the wall, he practiced patience as Arwen pulled a comb through his loose hair. "Aragorn has seen my hair many times, Arwen," he said. "This added attention will not accomplish anything."

Behind him, Arwen gasped in feigned astonishment and set the comb down beside him on the sill. "You underestimate the allure of your hair," she countered, "but I did not say I do this for Aragorn." Claiming a few strands at his temple, she deftly braided it in his usual style with great accuracy, her fingers not even brushing his ear. "I find this pleasure eases my nerves."

"Well, while you indulge yourself with my hair, I will tell you what I have done to actually further our plan," he teased. "I have requested a performance tonight. But as they do not take requests, I do not know what we will hear."

"Will it be outside? It looks as if it might rain."

"You have been among Men too long if the threat of a clean rainstorm is enough to keep you indoors," he said.

"It was an observation, Legolas, not a reservation," she corrected, smoothing his now braided hair. "What are you going to tell Gimli?" As she stepped away, he spun around on the sill, setting his legs inside.

"Fortunately, I do not have to tell him anything," Legolas answered. Certain she was suitably distracted, he tugged on the plait at the back of his head, loosening it. "It seems a member of your entourage is a great admirer of axes and they have plans to meet and compare techniques. Though I would think such a discussion could span no more than a few minutes, he will probably manage to be busy most of the evening."

He knew she smiled though steam from the partly-filled washtub rose to dissolve her reflection from the mirror where she stood liberating her hair from the severe Queenly style he had decided he didn't care for. "You are too hard on him, I think," she said.

"Not at all; Dwarves are a sturdy folk. And I assure you he is not so courteous when we are alone. He just enjoys making me look the rogue in front of you." He stood from the window and crossed to her.

"And you make it so difficult for him," she teased as he helped her slip her robe from her shoulders, leaving only her ebony locks to oppose her nakedness. She eased into the tub, immersing herself into the clear, warm water.

Legolas returned to the window to sit beside her, bending his legs to press his light shoes against the sill. Listening to the soft splashing resonate off the chamber walls, he once again felt his apprehension lay claim to his thoughts. Though Arwen's concerns were well-founded – of that he trusted her perceptions too well to doubt – he was less confident she understood the finer details of her solution.

The ways of Men are different, he'd told her and he had spoken plainly. He had traveled many years in the company of Men, not only through forests and mountains devoid of Man, Elf, Dwarf or Hobbit, but through great cities where he was the only one among thousands who bore pointed ears. Arwen experienced that same vantage point daily now, but she was still a lady among them. Another peculiarity of Men: they behaved and even spoke differently in the presence of the females of their race.

He had seen Men in the society they preferred, the society they created for themselves and though he did not understand the strictures and categories they seemed to instinctively create, he did try to perceive and respect them. Though the finest of Men and one familiar with Elves, Aragorn had still developed these same elusive rules.

Legolas had no wish to offend him or alter the devoted friendship they had formed through their struggles against the Dark Lord, but he knew he would willingly say and do all he must to assuage Aragorn's doubt. They had fought together too long and survived too much for him to retreat when his skill was called upon to render tenderness, rather than death.

But still Legolas wished he better understood his friend's uncertainty. Though royalty and a son in the line of succession, he was all too aware that his was an immortal race. When he had been younger, more impetuous, the idea of ruling had appealed to him, but he had no desire to see his father eliminated and the lure of command had quickly faded.

He could only imagine what it would be like to be the one true heir, to be called Estel, "hope," knowing that, in their minds, everyone added the word "last." Last hope. Last hope for Men and within that, the last hope for all of Middle-earth. Legolas felt sure that not even his prodigious elven imagination could accurately recreate the weight of that burden.

"Legolas." He turned to see Arwen stretched out in the tub, one comely leg on the rim, observing him with her gentle blue eyes. "Do you have doubts?"

"None beyond those you can easily guess," he answered, turning from the window to set his feet on the floor next to the basin.

"You worry he will not understand."

"He was raised among our kind," he reasoned aloud, "even in your own house. It is in our favor that he will understand."

"It is," Arwen said, her voice still tinged with trepidation. She sat up in the water, her dripping hair sweeping forward to frame her worried face. "And I have seen much improvement in these past few days, so I know our exertions have not been in vain, but I wish he did not require this last effort."

"I, too, wish his grief had not run so deep," Legolas agreed, standing from the sill and crouching beside her. He claimed a cloth from edge of the tub and swept her hair over her shoulder, out of his way. "But among Men he is a king and in that his pressures are greater, his burdens that much more difficult to bear. It is likely his troubles burrow that much deeper as well."

Dipping the cloth into the water, he stroked it firmly along the smooth skin of her back. Arwen sighed, closing her eyes and resting her head against folded arms atop her bent knees.

"And I confess our diversions have done me good as well," he said. "Gimli is as good a friend and traveling companion as I could want, but beyond Lady Galadriel, his admiration of all things Elven is wanting."

"But he is a good Dwarf," Arwen murmured. "And a wise one."

"The wisest."

"Do you say that because he chose to befriend _you of all our kin?" Arwen smirked playfully._

"No." Then, with a smile, he added, "Though I do think it speaks highly of him."

Footsteps shuffled toward the chamber and paused. Legolas looked up to see a young handmaiden framed in the doorway. "More water, my lady?" the girl asked demurely, her eyes on the ground.

"Please."

The handmaiden entered, a jug of steaming water gripped with the folds of her abundant skirt to protect her hands. Legolas sat back to avoid being splashed and it seemed then that the handmaiden first noticed him. Her youthful eyes widened. Legolas abruptly tensed: Judging by her reaction, he had done something wrong. But, glancing quickly around, he realized he had no idea what.

Fighting to avert her gaze, but continually glancing at the puzzled Elf, the handmaiden poured the hot contents of the vase into the washtub with Arwen and quickly darted from the chamber. Legolas watched her departure with open confusion. "Does she always stare so, Arwen?"

"Did she stare at you?" Arwen asked, a smile widening languidly across her lips. "Well, it is either because you are one of the few Elven males she has seen – and undoubtedly the most splendid – or because a man who is not my husband is here to see me in the bath."

Legolas dropped the cloth to the water with a splash and sprang to his feet. Arwen's amused laughter echoed off the walls. "Should I explain?"

"The gossip has already begun," she replied. "And what could you hope to say that your ears and eyes do not say for you? All your words would serve to explain is, 'I am an Elf' and that she knows well enough. Besides," she mused, lying back in the now warmer water, "if we fear Aragorn's thoughts at such innocent rumors, we should have no hope for succeeding tonight."

Legolas looked back to the chamber door through which the handmaiden had retreated. "Ah, Arwen," he said, shaking his head and laughing despite his own embarrassment. "I cannot even comprehend the ways of _bathing among Men. I think you have chosen the wrong consort."_

"That you respect their ways even when you do not understand them reassures me that I have chosen more wisely than even I realized." Arwen watched him as he stepped near and knelt beside the tub.

"What do you hope will happen tonight?" he questioned.

"I hope…that he will accept from you what he has lately refused from me," she answered carefully. Then, she averted her eyes as her cheeks flushed red. "And Legolas, you say that Aragorn's grief is necessarily greater due to the position he holds among Men. You are right; He is pushed beyond the usual limits of his race. That is why I think we must go beyond the limits of ours."

An amazed smile broke through Legolas' initial shock. Arwen nervously lifted one wet hand to fondly dampen the hair hanging over his shoulder. "I know it is a great deal to ask," she added.

"There is nothing within my power to give too great to ask for on Aragorn's behalf." Legolas took her hand in his. Then, a soft breath of laughter escaped his lips. "And what you ask of me is hardly unpleasant."

"You do not mind, then, that I sought out your help?"

"Never before has a favor been requested of me that made me feel as though I am the one receiving the favor," he answered.

Arwen smiled widely, gratefully. "I am in your debt, Legolas."

"No, you are not," he refused, reaching out to softly stroke her cheek, "though I may very well end up being in yours."

Arwen laughed. "Come, then, we should be leaving lest we lend credence to foolishly started rumors by being late." Grinning, she stood from the water to step lightly from the tub.

As the water glistened and dripped from her maidenly form, Legolas admired her in a new light, not the least of which came from the illumination that, according to some, her form should not be for him to admire. He had been in jest when he had called her only "reasonably fair" for he thought Arwen far lovelier than any maiden it had been his honor to behold, even that object of Gimli's affection, Lady Galadriel of Lórien.

Looking on her he saw another raven-haired lady with bright eyes, but the colors were bolder and more dramatic, as if he were discovering feminine beauty for the first time. The heartache and worry she had borne and the wisdom she had gained only served to enhance the warmth in her quietly imploring blue eyes. On the face of Arwen there was no flaw.

"Legolas," she said, wrapping a robe around her damp shoulders. "I have clothes you might wear."

"You are going to dress me now?"

"Do you plan to take your bow and quiver with you?" she questioned, each word weighted. She stalked toward him, her eyes surveying his usual archer's attire.

"Of course not," he replied, his voice tinged with the whimsical. "I do not think Aragorn will object that violently."

"Then, you will not require these either," she reasoned smoothly with a laugh, taking him by the wrist and removing the protective vambraces. His eyes wide, Legolas hurriedly withdrew his wrist from her grasp. Happily, she did not notice his haste. One maidenly hand held firmly to his discarded braces while the other traveled swiftly to the fastens of his sturdy jerkin. "Nor will you need clothing so rugged as this."

Legolas shook his head in amusement, taking over from Arwen in untying the laces. "If by 'rugged' you mean that it is too difficult to remove, then perhaps it would be more efficient if I were to wear nothing at all."

"I could not allow that, for one of the most delightful parts of a gift is its wrapping." Arwen grinned sweetly. "When I have done with you, Legolas, I challenge any mortal creature to resist you."

"Do not make any such challenge," he cautioned. "It will end badly." He chuckled lightly and lifted his clothes from his shoulders.

****

To be continued....

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	4. The Gathering of the Clouds

~ The Gathering of the Clouds ~

A cool breeze blew through the corridor, making Aragorn glad he had chosen one of his warmer garments. He flexed his shoulders, trying to stretch the tight stitching on his new-sewn black duster. The long jacket wasn't exactly befitting a king, but it suited him well. King Elessar would never be a fashion template. 

Thunder, distant and subtle, rumbled across the sunlit sky, but was easily overcome by the faint buzz of chattering voices coming from the courtyard. Aragorn peered from the shade of the sheltered passage up to the sun-soaked risen platform that was his destination. Already others awaited the same performance he was to attend and they passed the time talking amongst themselves, except one party who he assumed were the performers themselves.

An unassuming assembly of ten Elven men and women stood facing one another in a small huddle, eyes closed and hands linked. Aragorn had often seen Elven singers take great care to prepare themselves for a particularly challenging song, but never such meditation en masse. Tonight's revelries, he decided, should prove to be out of the ordinary.

He leaned against one wide, sturdy pillar to wait for his companions and entertained himself in watching the goings-on up the short flight of stairs. Moments later, he heard the heavy fall of dwarf-boots clomping down the walkway in his direction.

"Good evening, Aragorn."

"Good evening, Gimli," he greeted. "Are you ready for another concert?"

"I am," the Dwarf replied, sounding surprised with himself, "but I believe this performance will be somewhat different than we have come to expect. Your wife sought me out earlier today: 'Dress well,' she said."

"She told me the same," Aragorn disclosed with an amused smile. He took an exaggerated step back to survey the Dwarf's attire. He was, indeed, dressed quite finely by Dwarven standards and Aragorn could tell that he'd even taken what must have been a sturdy comb to his bristly hair for his abundant beard lay remarkably flat. "I think we have done quite well for ourselves, Gimli."

"Indeed, we have, Aragorn!" Gimli cried, hooking his thick thumbs on his belt and lifting his chin proudly. "We have groomed and polished ourselves most admirably."

Side by side, hands on their waists, Dwarf and Man stood with puffed out chests, awaiting their companions. A trio of pretty elf-maidens glided by, receiving a suave nod from both well-dressed cavaliers.

"You have beaten us here," Legolas said with pleasure, coming up behind them. Aragorn and Gimli turned.

Legolas stood before them, resplendent in a magnificent jerkin of softest green accented by fine embroidered gold leaves, open over a smooth tunic of pale blue. Highlighted by the colors of his raiment, his elven eyes seemed to glimmer in the shadows and his newly braided hair shined, smooth and glossy.

After a span of silence, Gimli coughed uncomfortably, his proud chin lowering, his thumbs leaving his belt. Aragorn looked down at his fancy clothes, which suddenly seemed less fancy.

"We should claim our seats," the oblivious Elf recommended. "This shall not be a performance to watch from the shadows." Legolas strode past them and swiftly mounted the steps.

Aragorn exhaled slowly, shrugging to the equally deflated Dwarf beside him. Gimli forced a smile, but the Ranger saw when only moments later, he licked one finger and tried to give his belt buckle a quick spit shine.

"You look very fine tonight, my lord." Aragorn heard Arwen's familiar voice behind him as he watched Gimli slog up the stairs after his agile friend.

"Not by Elven standards, I am afraid," he said, taking care to adopt a casual self-effacing tone. But when he turned to his wife, all calculation left his mind.

"Even by those standards you are extraordinary," Arwen breathed, her delicate fingers caressing the red trim on his duster. But Aragorn could not muster a reply.

Arwen seemed to glow in a pale green gown, as simple as it was beautiful. Her black tresses streamed over her shoulders and down her back, stippled with small silver leaves, seeming to make a star-filled night sky of her hair. It had been years since he had seen the locks loose and free anywhere other than their bedchamber when retiring for the night. She had taken her role as Queen of Men seriously and had, from their wedding day until the present, worn her hair bound as befit her title among her new society.

But at that moment, Aragorn only dimly recollected that such a society existed and that he was the liege of that land. He felt transported as Arwen neared him, her warm smile fighting off the chill in the air. This was years ago – a lifetime ago.

His heart seemed halted in his chest as he gazed upon this vision, this unimaginable loveliness. And he was shocked to see the same adoration directed at him from the tender sapphire of her eyes. She raised one slender, delicate hand and ghosted it over his cheek. The softness of her fingertips brought to his attention the roughness of his own skin and the stubble across his jaw that he never managed to be completely without.

He caught her hand in his and tried to ignore the countless number of scars and calluses the contact emphasized across his palm and fingers. "I believe Legolas and Gimli will have saved us seats," he said, his eyes averting from her for only a moment.

Arwen smiled slightly and Aragorn couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of sadness cross her fair features. "Lead and I shall follow," she replied, her voice sturdy where her expression had faltered.

Aragorn climbed the steps and he and Arwen claimed the empty seats beside Legolas and Gimli. He gripped the arm of his chair as he sat, surprised by the strength of the timber. These same sturdy chairs had graced this circle all through the days of Sauron's rise and had witnessed the first joining of the fellowship. They appeared remarkably unworn despite the span of years, but elven furnishings were, after all, made to endure both wind and weather.

Legolas sat beside him, his eyes already focused on his seemingly unexceptional kin standing silent beneath the massive blooming tree around which this raised courtyard had been built. A select group of Elves filled in the remaining chairs.

Instead turning his gaze upward, Aragorn noticed the storm clouds, marring the otherwise clear, sunlit sky. His nose wrinkled slightly in displeasure; he didn't like rain, a disdain fostered by his days as an active Ranger. Rain meant a diluted trail to track and a cold, wet bed at night. Knowing that this rainstorm could be tolerated from beneath the protective canopy of a balcony did not make the prospect any more enjoyable.

However, he was nearly alone among his companions who felt as such, it seemed. He sensed a certain eagerness in the air and glimpsed many acute elven eyes glancing expectantly at the deepening sky.

"If I did not know better," Gimli said, turning to Legolas in critical bewilderment, "I would think they were looking forward to the rain." A knowing smile was Legolas' only answer.

Silence fell and Aragorn's mind and eyes were pulled toward the tree and the regal performers standing before it. No voices had been speaking, no bodies had been moving and yet, from that silence, they had collectively descended into one even deeper. The very wind seemed to halt its breath, urging the leaves on the trees to be quiet.

One Elf-maiden stepped forward from the others, her dark hair covered by a smooth scarf as green as her eyes. Focusing her gaze beyond her audience, beyond the mountains embracing Rivendell, seemingly beyond all of Middle-earth, she began to sing.

With each crest of her rising song, the woman lunged forward, her hands outstretched, reaching toward the ground. Her emerald eyes lowered to the stone beneath her and she bent her fingers as if calling forth the rock itself. The insistence in her voice intensified: No longer ordering, but demanding; so forceful she compelled the blood pumping through Aragorn's heart to match her rhythm.

Her slim hands tightened into fists and with one last entreating, melodious cry, she threw her arms high above her head, wrenching imaginary sinew from the ground and suddenly two shining plants burst through, forcing their way to the world above.

The woman stepped back, joining her fellow Elves as they raised their voices with hers and all eyes watched the quiet glimmers upon the ground, standing tall, growing towering, stretching out limbs and boughs from their smooth, glimmering trunks.

Elf-minstrels, Aragorn realized, these were Elf-minstrels, those rare Elven performers whose gift it was to make that of which they sing appear before those who listen.

Aragorn felt his jaw go slack in the majestic light of the vision as one tree shined with an incandescent silver while its companion darkened, turning to a luminous golden hue. He knew this story, had heard it many times during his childhood. The Trees of Valinor, the Trees that had been the origin from which the sun and moon had come forth.

The Elf-minstrels linked their voices once again, coaxing the lustrous saplings further from the stone. The shining trees grew large, filling the limited space of the circle, spreading their gleaming canopy of leaves over the heads of their minstrel creators and those listening. They bent and moved within an invisible wind, their bark as glossy and swirling as a molten mirror, their leaves each made of the same liquidity, but fluttering in the breath of air with the rapidity and inconstancy of their earth-bound equivalents.

The iridescent boughs of the gold tree extended far over Aragorn's head. He felt the warmth of the tree, though it was not real, and sensed the reflections of light from the leaves on his face, though they did not exist. Beside it, the silver tree spread its limbs thick with stunning flowers and leaves of deep green and ever dropping a rain of silver dew that fell to the stone and disappeared. As the minstrels sang around them, the trees blossomed bearing fruit and flowers with all the light and glory to be found in the imaginations of Men or Elves.

Then, suddenly, the song turned sour and Aragorn felt his heart leap in worried anticipation as a shadow seemed to fall over the glorious Trees. A great hideous spider stole slowly and deliberately toward the unprotected loveliness, accompanied by a creature of a darkness more profound than the simple absence of light. The warrior in Aragorn tensed and only his knowledge of reality stayed his hand. Beside him, he felt Legolas' archer's arms turn protectively to stone and Gimli's hand flew to the hilt of his axe as the threatening horrors moved ever closer to the sparkling boughs.

With a great discordant cry of simultaneous anguish and triumph from the singers, the looming darkness slashed each tree across its radiant trunk with an inexplicable hunger for destruction worthy of a pack of Orcs. From the gashes, sap poured forth, drenching the ground with blood of silver and gold.

The minstrels' voices lowered to a sorrowful wail as the grotesque arachnid knelt, thrusting her face forward, forcing the enchanted sap to pour into her beaked mouth. With gentle, melodic sobs accentuating each horrible swallow, each terrible gulp, the evil creature drank the Trees dry, robbing them of their light, of their beauty, leaving them blackened, arid husks of timber.

One Elf-maiden forced her voice above the others, letting out a shriek of grief that chilled Aragorn's skin and forced tears to his eyes. The spider disappeared in a disgusting cloud of black filth while the shadow departed, fleeing with a dreadful cackle supplied by one of the male performers.

Two Elven ladies stepped forward from the others. From their bodies, two lithe and graceful visions walked out, approaching the wounded Trees and sorrow branded the faces of both newly imagined elven goddesses as they caressed the damaged branches. With even the slightest touch, the thickest of limbs fell frail and lifeless at their feet. A note of pure sorrow filled the air as tears slid down the goddesses' pale marble cheeks.

Kneeling beside one another, linking hands, the two slender maidens lowered their heads, silken hair covering their faces from view. Voiced by two earthly Elves, the goddesses joined their voices in song. Low from the ground the aria began, rising, spiraling higher and higher; an entreaty for life to continue. Apprehension grabbed Aragorn as the two Trees, now dark and brittle, thickened, their ebony bark frosting over with almost imperceptible light.

The Trees swelled slightly, straining to reclaim their stolen mortality. Aragorn's chest constricted painfully at the endurance of the solitary note of the song; his lungs fought for air even as his heart longed to see a sign of life in the imaginary Trees.

The Trees were Gondor, they were all of Middle-earth, and that foul creature had been Sauron, pillaging, bleeding it to lifelessness, beyond all terrible imaginings, beyond all fears - and perhaps even beyond repair. 

But all of that remained buried deeply within the monarch's mind. His consciousness only acknowledged his atypical reaction to the story as elven bewitchment, nothing more. That the Trees, for all their apparent substance, were merely mystical fabrications, he knew. They were no more tangible than the wind.

No more real than an unspoiled Gondor.

With a gasp, one maiden wrenched her voice from the other, tears and dismay marring her features. The Trees had ceased to move. She stood and with a despondent shake of her head, abandoned her companion and the lifeless Trees, knowing all their efforts to be in vain. The damage had been too great, too devastating. Life could not be restored where death had taken root.

The Elf-minstrels reclaimed the vision of the despairing woman into their fold as they combined their voices in lament, accompanying the remaining goddess, still kneeling.

The notes seemed to be at the very pitch of Aragorn's soul, almost like the wailing cry of gulls. Though he had never before heard it, the sound was familiar. He almost felt as if he could have sung along, as if he already knew the pathetically hopeful words; the lyrical futility of a ruler begging for light before a field of darkness.

Then, once more, silence fell.

The solitary imagined deity raised her head, her mouth opening just as a vocalist began singing to give her voice. Soft and gentle, the words spoke more of sorrow and release than of life-giving and return. With pain in her heart, and the hearts of all listening, the fair elven goddess bid farewell to the Trees of Valinor. Bid farewell to a beauty that could never be again, knowing that she had failed.

But, even as she said goodbye, a limb of each tree stirred. Aragorn felt himself lean forward in his seat, wishing to make sure that the movement he had seen had been real. Straining with effort, their extension languid, the two boughs each presented one last splendor. One, a glimmering silver blossom, glowing with all the former unearthly beauty of the Tree that bore it. The other, a fruit of pure shining gold. The Moon and the Sun.

With tempered happiness and a smile full of tears, the goddess claimed a gift in each hand. Standing, she sang aloud, calling the world to her attention. All the minstrels joined together to give this one vision a voice, a combined voice powerful enough to shake the chairs upon which their audience sat, powerful enough to vibrate the ground beneath their feet.

At this mighty call, two forms appeared, brought forth by the song itself. One was a striding warrior, his straight hair of deepest ebony. It was not only the bow and quiver of arrows upon his back that made Aragorn liken this imagined archer to Legolas, it was his proud carriage and athletic frame, as well as something of the intelligent and royal in his face. Were it not for the dark hair and tunic of silver, Aragorn might have quite mistaken the two.

The other figure was an Elf-maiden with flaxen hair cascading long over white shoulders and a dress of gold. The elegant arch to her eyebrows and the delicate bend of her lips reminded Aragorn of Arwen as readily as the archer had of Legolas. But also, Aragorn knew of this maiden. He knew she had been described as a woman of surpassing loveliness, with eyes so bright, even the Eldar could not look upon her. And when not in human form, she appeared as a living flame, unimaginable in her beauty. In Aragorn's soul, Arwen had always appeared as just such a flame.

His heart thumped with pride and his throat felt tight with sobs of inexplicable gratitude, as if it were truly his wife and his friend who had dared answer the call of the deity, who dared to salvage the beauty of a ruined paradise. The silver archer and the golden maiden stepped forward to the goddess as the Elf-minstrels sang her thanks and praised their bravery, goodness and selflessness.

As the silver archer received into his hands the silver flower, a streak slid across his form. Faster and faster more streaks descended, dissolving away the archer, the golden maiden and the goddess alike as the singers abruptly halted their voices.

The rain had begun.

Instinctively, Aragorn darted down the stairs, taking refuge beneath the nearby balcony, and he was not surprised to find only Gimli upon his heels, retreating from the curtain of thick water droplets claiming the clearing.

A crackling like the sound of wet tinder thrown upon a healthy fire tore across the sky, and the minstrels lifted their voices, in one tremulous, unified tone to meet it. As the skyward sizzling grew, the singers responded in kind, growing louder and louder until a jagged spike of lightning stabbed through the air, releasing the mounting pressure.

Arwen and Legolas sat beside one another, their backs to Aragorn and their faces turned upwards, allowing the insistent drops to tap against their faces. Joining the minstrels in song, the other Elves began to dance in the drenching rainfall. 

Aragorn trained his gaze on his friend and his wife as they stood to join their kindred. In one fluid movement, Legolas slid an arm around Arwen's narrow waist and pulled her smoothly against him. The pale greens of their clothes blended them seamlessly together and Aragorn noticed for the first time the harmony of their raiment: the same gentle emerald, accentuated by leaves of gold on Legolas and on Arwen, delicate leaves of silver. The rain already soaking into her hair to descend in rivulets down her face, Arwen locked her eyes on those of her fellow Elf and the two began dancing with the rest.

The wind whipped the trees, the deep jade leaves stirring individually and yet moving as one with a graceful wildness, contrasting starkly with the luminescent bright white of the clouds. Thunder rumbled through the air, sending deep vibrations through the pillar on which Aragorn rested his hand. Serrated veins of lightning pierced the sky as waves of rain swept across the raised courtyard, billowing in like clouds of smoke.

Then, for a moment, the thunder silenced, and behind the delicate din of raindrops, Aragorn heard the birds twittering happily, singing with the Elves.

He suddenly felt as though he were witnessing some sacred ritual that was not to be observed by mortal creatures. The Elves seemed connected to the storm and the wind and the birds in a way that the Ranger, for all his years spent in the wilds, could never fully comprehend. The Elves, more than any other race, _were Middle-earth._

Lightning flashed, illuminating the still bright sky with frenetic energy, the atmospheric sizzling matching in harmony with Elven voices. The rain drenched the Elves' hair, leaving it in dripping tendrils that clung to their faces and shoulders as they spun.

Arwen's hair, heavy with water, soared through the air with the rapidity of her motion as she held to Legolas, the glimmering silver leaves and dark locks creating a star shower amid the rain. The cleansing downpour soaked in further, turning Legolas' pale jerkin dark and causing Arwen's soft green gown to cling closely, displaying well the perfection of her feminine curves.

"Blagh!" Gimli cried out in disgust as an errant gust of wind dashed a sheet of rain at them beneath their shelter. "A cold, wet, noisy nuisance," he growled, brushing the droplets from his prodigious beard and furry eyebrows. "And yet he dances in it, the fool Elf. If I were to spend a hundred years with him, Aragorn, I still do not think I would understand Elves."

"Perhaps they are not ours to understand," Aragorn mused aloud. The sudden laughter of the Dwarf beside him was so startling a contrast to his own mood that the Man instinctively turned to his companion, tearing his eyes from the intoxicating Elven distraction.

"That cannot be," Gimli countered with a chuckle. "I am a dwarf-lord and you are a King; there is no riddle in Middle-earth that is not ours to decipher. And certainly not one so trifling as 'why do silly Elves dance in a thunderstorm.'"

Aragorn feigned a breath of laughter. "Perhaps you are right, Gimli," he replied, though he could not feel it to be so. 

***

To be continued…in a very slashy manner. ;)

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	5. A Conspiracy Unmasked

~ A Conspiracy Unmasked ~

Aragorn knelt on the river's bank, following suit as Legolas beside him crouched to remove his elven shoes. Arwen stood with the river's swift current flowing past her ankles, wetting the hem of her gown, still damp from dancing in the rain.

Leaving his sturdy boots beside his friend's, Aragorn stepped into the creek, feeling the torrent of water quickly cool his warmed feet. He followed Arwen as she glided barefoot over the slick rocks, her movements as fluid as the stream. They had been walking for nearly an hour and only the Rivendell Elf, it seemed, had been fully prepared for the path along which they traveled, a path through the river.

Perhaps it was she who had chosen it then, Aragorn thought, but it had been Legolas who had guided them to this point, and his feet now bare, it was Legolas who once again took the lead. There was something unsettling about following that familiar form when it did not bear a quiver of arrows. Aragorn knew that the archer was leading him somewhere safe, secluded. And that made him nervous.

But more so, it made him anxious. Whatever the purpose of the week had been, whatever Legolas and Arwen had been planning, they lead him toward it now. Anticipation spiked through his limbs as they descended into a thicket of trees, the distant waterfall sounding ever closer.

The Ranger's eyes fell to the forest floor, immediately finding a bent blade of grass and several feet ahead, a snapped twig, understanding that, if he is comfortable in his surroundings, even an Elf can leave a trail. This path had been traversed earlier this day, wherever they were heading had been…chosen, specifically. But for what?

The earth beneath his feet trembled as they neared the thundering waterfall and came to the first ridge of rocks separating them from the cliffs surrounding the Last Homely House. As he wordlessly followed his companions over the ridge, Aragorn couldn't recall ever having come to this place. It was far removed from the heart of Rivendell itself and judging by the absence of tracks beyond the solitary one he had previously noticed, it was largely unvisited.

The waterfall pounded against the river below, sending up a translucent cloud of mist, coating the terrain in a cool sheen of fresh water. They had come to the last ridge of rocks that now overlooked only the waterfall itself. But Legolas turned left, climbing higher on the mountain. They entered a dense fold of trees that dared to grow even to the very edge of the precipice, their thick roots jutting out from the rock to hang firmly over the fall.

Once they had emerged from this small thicket, Legolas abruptly came to a stop. Aragorn looked around and realized they had reached their destination.

The trees grew close to one another in an almost perfect semi-circle as if they'd known this place would be a fitting atmosphere for Elvish stories and songs and had each clamored for the best seat. As it was, they had created a secluded out-cropping, lined with trees on one side, carpeted with thick, soft moss and edged on the other side by the rapid drop-off of the cliff carved out eons ago by the waterfall's fervent descent.

A lone mountain bird called aloud, his song hollow and haunting. Aragorn stepped into the clearing, the moss feeling pliant beneath his feet, and the vision took his breath away. The round orb of the sun burnt in the sky, a deep sienna, casting a golden glow across everything before his eyes.

But even as Aragorn admired the vista, the sun sank lower upon the horizon, surrendering to the night. Already, the phantom of the moon stood at the ready, anxious to claim the sky. Seeing both celestial bodies, he felt an indefinable sadness.

According to the legend, the sun and moon had come from the Trees of Valinor. They were all that remained of what was once the pride and love of all creatures, the jeweled heart of a paradise. Suddenly, though he didn't know why, those oft-admired spheres looked like skeletons to him; ruins, worthless vestiges of long-dead beauty. He looked away, disgusted.

Accompanied by an abrupt crackling, his shadow suddenly stretched out before him. He turned to see a flaming torch fastened low on the trunk of one of the trees and two others unlit and waiting, crooked from the rainstorm. If Aragorn had had any lingering doubts as to whom had scouted this location, that would have settled it. Those were the torches of a wood-elf.

Arwen tapped her damp toes against the moss, watching as it sank slightly under her weight. Her hand rested idly on the trunk of a tree, but then Aragorn noticed her fingers strummed against the rough bark. She looked…nervous.

"Aragorn," she called softly, bidding him to near her. As he did so, he noticed her eyes flit only momentarily to Legolas, casting that now familiar, communicative glance. An excited anticipation rippled through Aragorn's stomach.

Pulling him to the ground with her, Arwen knelt with Aragorn. He rested his back against an obliging tree and stretched his legs out in front of him as Legolas righted the torches on the other trees, humming low in his throat in his gentle, masculine tones. It took only moments for Aragorn to recognize the tune as that which often accompanied the ballad of Beren and Lúthien. Both remaining torches burst alive, shining like red stars in the twilight.

Arwen extended her limber form along the darkness of the moss beside her husband, stretching out a hand to rest on his knee. When looking upon her as he did now, Aragorn felt again as if he had strayed into a dream or an Elf-minstrel's vision like those he had witnessed tonight. She was too lovely for this earth, even for a place as magical as Rivendell.

Unable to resist, he lay a hand on her head, daring to stroke her fine hair. It felt as if he had immersed his fingers in a mountain stream, the smooth, cool strands of hair slipping over his skin like water. Arwen sighed sweetly, a tender smile teasing at her lips.

"Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lórien, Evenstar of her people," her father had said years ago. "She is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you." The same stab he had felt at the time shot thorough Aragorn's much older heart.

"And so, I think, it may well seem to her," Elrond had added. Mere speculation on her father's part and yet, it had planted a seed. A seed, which Aragorn could not stop from germinating and eventually bearing poison fruit. That Arwen could be his only if he were King of Gondor, Elrond had made clear, but Aragorn, secret from them, secret even from himself, had somehow aspired beyond that. To win the love of Arwen, he felt, was something different than being worthy of it.

His hand paused almost imperceptibly, but he knew she'd felt it. Though it resembled those other nights, he knew by the unfamiliar ache in his chest that it wasn't. Under the moon of those evenings, he had seen her as a glowing star to which he must climb to gain its warmth. Many staircases separated them, but it was only a matter of taking step after step, slowly, but with determination.

Now, he stood at the top landing, no more steps remained before him and yet, he still hadn't won the warmth. Instead, the star had come to him, because it had known he could never climb that high.

Was this the King of Gondor her father had deigned to say was enough? Was this the man Arwen called "husband" and Legolas called "friend?" A king who could not salvage his own kingdom? A man who could lead in war, but knew not how to reign over peace?

Aragorn closed his eyes, feeling himself drift into a melancholy oblivion with the softness of the dark tresses curled about his fingers and the dulcet voice caressing his mind so subtly he might have thought he were alone and only imaging it. His reverie deepened, weighed down by the images of barren fields and rivers flowing black, but somewhere far distant in his consciousness, he was aware that Legolas had stopped humming and he heard the Elf's light footsteps nearing him.

"Aragorn," Legolas said, his voice now close. "I consider you a cherished friend, a brother not of my kin. And to Arwen you are-"

"The lord of my heart," she supplied breathily beside him.

Puzzled by the sudden frankness of their speech, Aragorn opened his eyes. His gaze first fell on the Elven archer standing over him with a bare foot on each side of his out-stretched legs. Arwen gently removed her hand from his knee. "We would have you understand," Legolas continued in earnest, "we do not use such endearments idly."

His penetrating stare never leaving Aragorn's eyes, Legolas lowered to one knee, swiftly closing the distance between them, enclosing the man's hips between a dropped knee and foot. Fingers slid to the back of Aragorn's neck, beneath his hair. Then, before he understood these uncharacteristic actions, Legolas' pressed his lips against his.

Aragorn knew that if the Elf wished to proceed, he would have difficulty stopping him, but Legolas allowed himself to be distanced with only a slight touch. His eyebrows knitted in confusion, and not a small amount of anger, Aragorn stared down his friend, his eyes demanding explanation. Legolas simply bore his gaze, his clear cobalt eyes unflinching; not moving forward - but not moving back, either.

"Why do you do this, Legolas?" he asked sternly, his displeasure showing plainly on his face though he contained what part of it coursed through his body.

"Arwen has noticed an alteration in you, Aragorn," he replied with a slight incline of his head.

With a gruff sigh of irritation, the man pushed Legolas fully away and stood from the ground. "And this is your solution?" he inquired of his wife. "A base seduction?"

"There is nothing base about it." Arwen sat up, her hair spilling over her white shoulders like liquid midnight. "Please," her hushed velvet tones pleaded, "let him." Her vivid eyes gazed up at his, imploring, wishing…begging.

He shook his head adamantly, silently refusing her request. "I do not know what you hoped to accomplish with this," he said harshly, turning to leave the precipice, "but this deception is beneath both of you."

"Aragorn," said Legolas. Aragorn paused. The sound of worry and surprise filling the call cooled some of the scorn and ire lighting in his blood. "We cannot keep you here, that you know. And what we have done is not deception, I think you know that as well."

Aragorn turned, casting his glowering stare back to Legolas and his wife. Arwen still lay upon the ground, her untarnished gown pooled about her legs while beside her, Legolas stood tall, his shoulders squared, his face unreadable.

"You cannot be so transformed as to feel you do not know us," he stated, his chin held high. At the tone of offense in the archer's voice, Aragorn immediately regretted the quickness of his temper. Proud Elves are not fast to forgive.

"I am not so transformed, Legolas," he said, allowing a hint of apology to enter his voice. "And for that reason I cannot believe you wish to do this."

"You do me a great honor by thinking me like one of your kindred for some of the most valiant and capable warriors I have known have been of your race," Legolas said smoothly. Arwen lifted herself from the ground to stand beside him. "But I am not a Man, Aragorn. I am an Elf."

Aragorn couldn't help but laugh at the obvious statement. "Yes, Legolas," he humored, "I have not forgotten."

"Then why do you believe me incapable of acting like one?"

He held Legolas' clear blue gaze, those eyes he knew well in a face that had not aged a day since the moment they'd met. "Was this your design, then, in coming to Rivendell?" he questioned. "Is Gimli to join us later as well?"

A genuine smile broke across Legolas' stern face and he laughed aloud, a bright cheery sound. "Gimli may be the wisest of Dwarves," he cried, "but this notion is still quite beyond him."

Aragorn sighed throatily, trying to stifle his own laughter so easily induced by the mirth on his friend's face. "Well, it is quite beyond me as well," he muttered.

"No, it is not," Arwen declared, her fair voice managing to be both soft and insistent. "And you give Legolas a great insult if you think he would make such an offer to one who could not accept it."

Aragorn ran his hands through his tangled hair, partly in frustration and partly to distract himself from the pleading look in his wife's eyes. She did this out of love, that he knew. And Legolas…out of loyalty, perhaps, but he could not understand this. His mind felt thick, full of cobwebs.

"Do not bind us in your rules when we do not belong there," Arwen entreated. "We are not the designations you would give us. We are only Arwen and Legolas."

She lifted herself from the ground and Aragorn's heart leapt at the silken manner in which she approached him, her slender legs outlined in her gown with every step. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled herself close, her lips brushing against his neck. He slipped an arm around her waist, feeling her heat and the curves of her body against him.

"Please," she whispered, her breath stirring against the skin of his neck, "let us."

He lowered his eyelids, loosing himself in the sensations of his wife. "How will this help me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"That you cannot know until it has," she answered elusively. He felt her smooth forehead rest against his cheek. "Please," she whispered once more. Opening his eyes, he regarded his friend still standing before him with all the patience of an immortal. Arwen slid her hand around his, pulling him with her back toward the glade. Legolas gently gripped his shoulders just as Arwen released his fingers.

Watching the familiar visage of his friend and glancing uncertainly toward Arwen, Aragorn forced his knees to bend as Legolas pulled him to sit upon the ground. His shoulder blades were softly eased against the sturdy trunk of a tree, an elven traveling pack made to double as a pillow against his lower back; he was simultaneously comfortable and insanely uncomfortable as Legolas unbent his legs to stretch them out straight upon the moss, as if carefully positioning a damaged limb for bandaging.

Arwen slid down beside them, extending her form upon the mist-wet ground, cradling her head upon her arms. With a sudden swell of nerves, Aragorn realized she had no intention of participating at the moment – whatever he was being asked to do, he was being asked to do it with Legolas alone. His gaze flashed to his friend who crouched before him, slowly drawing nearer.

"Legolas," Aragorn uttered, "I do not wish to cross this line with you."

The Elf shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You must understand that there are no lines to cross." As Legolas settled across his lap, capturing his hips between his thighs, Aragorn swallowed hard, tension – and an unfamiliar anticipation – thrumming through his every nerve. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn," the archer said assertively in his effortlessly flowing voice, "you are worthy of all that you will experience tonight."

***

To be continued...and now the real fun begins. ;)

Continue to check here for updates- we'll make sure you know when they happen - and please, oh, please review!


	6. Three is Company

For your reading pleasure: an FF.net compliant non-NC-17 excerpt.

~ Three is Company~

….

A long, pent-up breath slid past Aragorn's lips and he was suddenly aware how fiercely his heart had been beating, pounding dully in his ears and with double intensity somewhere lower on his body. He suddenly found himself thankful for the mist coating his face and chest, for it most likely hid the perspiration gleaming on his skin induced by passion and, though he was loath to admit it, anxiety as well.

For the second time that night, he found his gaze shifting from one Elf to the other. Sky-coloured eyes regarded him with obvious compassion and understanding, and shone deeply with love. Truly, they were beautiful creatures… no, 'beautiful' was a woefully inadequate word. It would seem, Aragorn decided, that the Common Tongue held no proper word to describe the beauty of Elves.

Nor were there proper words to describe what he felt for these two Elves, his dearest lover and his closest friend. Desire—yes, desire for his friend-- friendship… love… so much his heart could never dream to place into words. He could not, would not push them away. 

"No…" he breathed. "No, I do not wish to stop."

With a smile upon his lips Legolas dipped his head down again, teeth delicately grazing against the skin of Aragorn's throat as his hands traveled lower over the Ranger's bare tanned skin, making him tremble with heated shivers, stopping at the waistband of his breeches.

***

Now, if you want to read the whole scene in all its splendid detail, then just hop on over to our homepage, The Unimagined. www.geocities.com/jerboa_lemur 

Please review either here or in our guest book. Happy reading! Oh, and by the way, the more reviews we get, the faster we write. We can't imagine why that is, but it works. ;)


	7. The Last Debate

Once again, an excerpt: just enough to tantalize…and not get us in trouble with FF.net. ;)

***

~The Last Debate~

Strong arms reached out to circle Legolas' back and he pulled the naked Elf onto his lap. If possible, their kiss became deeper, more intimate, as Aragorn's tongue ventured past open lips to explore his friend's mouth. A soft moan trilled their joined flesh and Aragorn shuddered, moaning in unison.

Legolas drew soothing, caressing hands across his damp back and shoulders, though it seemed to create quite the opposite effect on the Man; Aragorn moaned again, breaking the kiss, his lips seeking the Elf's neck. He kissed and bit at the soft flesh, while his hands kneaded and roamed over more silken, ivory skin. 

A whimper sounded as Aragorn's lips found the Elf's earlobe, even as his arms crushed the lithe form to his own. The sound may have made anyone else pause, but he knew better than to treat his beautiful friend as though he were made of glass. He knew how so many were fooled by the beautiful elvish exterior of his friend. But whereas some would be tempted to give feminine attributes of beauty to such a pretty creature, Aragorn had long since learned the strength and power hidden behind the golden façade.

***

To read the rest of this chapter in all its NC-17 glory, then just come on over to our site at www.geocities.com/jerboa_lemur. (And the link from our bio page is working now. We apologize for the trouble.)

Fanartists, please go wild. We're still waiting for our first piece of art! And if you like (or don't like) what your reading, if you have questions (or riddles), please review either here or in our guest book. We love hearing from you. Happy reading!


	8. Fire and Water

Question: What is this thing they call "life" and why does it keep interfering with our fanfiction?

We're back!Here's your tantalizing excerpt:

***

~ Fire and Water ~

Pillowy fingertips grazed small patterns into the stubbled skin of Aragorn's face and neck.His eyes flickered shut from the sensation and he shuddered faintly.

Brushing a few dark strands of hair from her moist skin, Aragorn cradled her cheek and brought her to his lips.He tasted sweetness again, this time mingled with a tinge of warm mountain breeze.He nearly smiled at the thought that he could easily distinguish one Elf from the other now solely by the taste of their lips.

His tongue pressed past Arwen's lips, stroking the delicate flesh of her mouth, deepening the kiss; it was scorching, both sating and yet unfulfilling, as though with every moment he only craved her more.The thought of Legolas, and how he had been so desirous of the other Elf so as to forgo his own pleasure, came back to him.He shivered heatedly.

***

You know the drill: for the chapter in all its splendid, banned-by-FF.net glory, come on over to our website ([http://www.geocities.com/jerboa_lemur][1]).

Also, please check out our first piece of fanart, submitted by the wonderful S-Star.Thank you so much, S-Star!Now, all the rest of you, give that great title card some company!Where have all our fanartists gone?

Sorry you had to wait so long for this chapter, but we weren't kidding when we said we write faster when we get lots of reviews. ;)Thanks should be extended to The Harlequin, Inferno, Annie K and Reafre.Thank you for reviewing the latest chapter.But what's up with the rest of you out there?Are you closet slashers?Are you shy?What's up? ;)

We love both reviews and fanart, so do whichever you are inspired to do, but regardless of what medium you choose, we want to hear from you!Thank you for reading!

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/jerboa_lemur



	9. A Short Rest

Hello! We're back. We told you it wouldn't be too long.

Here's your tantalizing excerpt:

***

~A Short Rest~

Legolas swooped down to claim Aragorn's lips in a gentle, tender kiss, sliding his tongue into the Man's mouth only briefly, licking his top lip with a teasing swipe.

Aragorn fought a moan when Legolas broke the kiss, reaching out to where most of their clothing now lay until he fumbled through the pockets of his breeches. He produced a small vial of darkly-colored oil, and was already working on removing the small wooden cork as he shuffled back next to where Aragorn lay on the ground, eyeing him warily. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of apprehension at the thought of what the Elf had in mind.

Legolas laughed softly at the Man's suspicious gaze, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Fear not, Aragorn. I believe you will find this quite enjoyable."

***

For the rest of the glorious chapter, come over to our homepage. (http://www.geocities.com/jerboa_lemur).

Thanks to Anita, Serena, Raina Bee, Earendil-Baby and The Harlequin for reviewing. Remember, reviewing is always an acceptable alternative to fanart.

Speaking of which…

We have two wonderful pieces of fanart from S-Star and Rune, but we're hungry (read: desperate) for more. Here's how bad it has gotten: Last night, Lemur – one half of the Ellon Melethril entity – actually dreamt that she woke up to find fanart in her mailbox. The dream was complete with different artistic styles and varied e-mail addresses. The dream went so far as to allow her to dance around giddily and forward them to Maeve, her partner in crime.

We don't want to beg, but that's where we are. Please, artists, please! Do us the honor of a sketch or a little photomanip – anything. Keep in mind that we would love to see any moment of the story artistically represented, not just the randy moments. If all you want to draw is a gorgeous picture of Legolas, we'd love it! Any moment in the story is yours for the creating. We can't even begin to tell you how much it would mean to us. We're literally begging.


	10. The Clouds Burst

Hi! We're back. 

Here's your excerpt, friends:

***

~The Clouds Burst~

Aragorn could not tell how much time had passed, and he began skirting close to sleep, his eyelids growing heavy as his body relaxed back into the cool ground.

He sensed movement next to him and opened his eyes. Tiredness suddenly forgotten, he watched raptly as Arwen gracefully shuffled next to where he and Legolas still lay, and extended a slender arm to brush away a strand of the other Elf's golden hair that had clung to his cheek. She tucked the strand behind a pointed ear, slowly and languidly, then brought her fingers back to trace the sensitive tip.

A soft moan sounded and Aragorn pushed himself up on his elbows, watching with quiet fascination as Legolas' body shuddered under Arwen's touch. She had brought her other hand up, gently pulling back soft blond hair, lavishing the same attention to the other upswept ear.

***

To read the rest of the amazing (if I do say so myself) chapter, come on over to our homepage, the Unimagined at www.geocities.com/jerboa_lemur And please, do review!


	11. The Return of the King

Dear friends, we've had a few people tell us they didn't even see the epilogue to "The Love of Elves" and so we are posting it here for easier access.  Thank you all for reading and please, do review.  We love to hear from you.

***

~ The Return of the King ~

Hours later, the royal traveling company scurried about, working madly to adhere to the wishes of their king.  After days upon days in Rivendell's comforts, they had all grown familiar with their surroundings and had settled in.  Suddenly, King Elessar had announced that they would be leaving before mid-day, bound for Minas Tirith.  It had come as a shock, at the very least.

As Aragorn leisurely strapped his pack to his horse, he saw Legolas and Gimli emerging from their quarters.  Freshly bathed, his long hair wet and well-combed, the Elf walked barefoot, his tunic unfastened and open over his leggings.  He carried his hunter green jerkin in one hand and his vambraces in the other while, in an unusual public display of assistance, the Dwarf carried his boots.  Gimli bounced back and forth on his abbreviated legs, occasionally swinging one of the boots as if it were an axe, clearly recounting a rousing tale of battle.  Amused, Legolas smiled.

Aragorn glanced up at the sky: The moon had entirely set now and a sudden nervousness gripped his insides.  He worried about meeting his friend in the full light of day away from the charmed confines of the glade.

The wonder of the night the three of them had spent was beyond his imaginings, it was even beyond the boundaries of his memory for he was certain that his mind could not repaint it will total accuracy.  Even now, his eyes felt exhausted as if what he had witnessed had been too much for human sight.  And the sensations throughout his body were incredible, fantastical.  He felt at once as if he could sleep for days and run for miles.

But he would still have willingly turned back time and erased it all if it altered his relationship with Legolas.  He would rather have his friend than a memory.  However, with what he hoped was uncharacteristic selfishness, he wanted both. 

The Elf and Dwarf's happy chatter reached his ears long before they neared the rest of him.  "Well, Legolas," Gimli said.  "Should two of the Three Hunters find a trail and frighten another defenseless rabbit?"

"Ai, no.  I fear not, Gimli," Legolas refused, slowing to a stop.  Aragorn could see in his limbs an unusual lethargy and he realized he'd never before seen a tired Elf.  "But perhaps you might show me the proper way to wield an axe.  I find it all very fascinating."  Playful sarcasm laced Legolas' words as he claimed a boot and raised his leg to slide it onto his foot, allowing his flaxen hair to fall into the Dwarf's face.

"Fool Elf," Gimli growled.  "Mind your hair."  He spat against the strands snagged on his beard and roughly brushed away the wet locks.  "Ah, Aragorn!  Good morning."  The Dwarf nodded genially to him as they approached.  "Your royal party whispers that you are leaving.  Are we to lose your company so soon?"

"I am sad to say you are, Gimli," Aragorn answered, glancing over as Legolas stooped to slip on his remaining boot.

"I am not happy you will be gone, but it is good that you are going," Legolas said kindly, smiling at him as he stood up straight once more.

Aragorn hesitated in his response.  Looking upon the golden warrior in the morning sun, he was dazed to find he did not look different.  As the Elf closed his tunic with nimble fingers, hiding the smooth expanse of chest, Aragorn could remember vividly the feel of his own fingers stroking in passion the soft skin and planes of muscle and yet, he felt no different.  Legolas was just as he had always been and all at once, Aragorn realized Legolas had been right: there had been no lines to cross; he could have both the friend and the memory.  Such is the wonder of Elves, he thought.  He smiled easily.

"I feel it is," he answered.  "I have been away from my kingdom for too long.  I hope that your travels will soon bring you to Gondor.  Our land can always benefit from the presence of two stout-hearted visitors."

"Journeying to Rivendell was a mutual decision," Gimli informed, "and I do not recall whose turn it was to choose our next destination."

"It was yours," Legolas replied, slipping his jerkin on over his head.  "And I think we are beginning to run out of caves."

"We do not seem to be running out of forests, my friend," the Dwarf said, sharing an amused wink with Aragorn.  "So I cannot believe we have exhausted our supply of caves."

"Well, then," the Elf said with mock seriousness, "I am sorry, Aragorn, but it seems we have another dank hole to explore before visiting your grand halls in Minas Tirith.  You understand we have our priorities."

Aragorn smiled warmly, enjoying their camaraderie as he ever did.  "Whenever you arrive, you will be given the hero's welcome you deserve," he replied, gingerly tucking an errant lock of hair behind Legolas' ear.  "But even now, not all is safe in the wilds of Middle-earth."  He claimed the archer's gauntlets from the short wall beside them, adding, "I would advise you to not forget these."  With a teasing smile, he handed them to Legolas.

"I will not," the Elf answered with a grin and the barest hint of a blush on his cheeks.

Aragorn looked between the two warriors, feeling a tug in his heart at having to leave them so soon.  "Thank you, my dear friends," he said, setting a hand on a shoulder of each.  "May your journey be smooth."

"And yours, Aragorn," Legolas said.

Aragorn walked from them, returning to his rooms to claim the remaining parcels for his pack.  Pausing a moment on the balcony, he looked out over his childhood home, not sure if he would ever return again.  His traveling party bustled all through the courtyards and Aragorn knew it was not the last time he would see an Elvenhome populated by more Men than Elves.  But it was the first time he felt he could continue on without the supervision of the Fair Folk and perhaps even do honor to Lord Elrond's trust in him.

A duet of cheerful laughter drew him from his thoughts and he turned to see his Arwen standing with Legolas and Gimli.  The two Elves grinned at one another fondly, good-humoredly while the Dwarf beside them just looked confused.  Seeing how brightly Arwen smiled, seeing the weight and languor in her movements, knowing they were a result of Legolas' actions and not his own, Aragorn was again reminded he should be jealous, and yet, he wasn't.

In fact, he suddenly realized that he was smiling, too; smiling just to see his beloved silver maiden and golden archer so happy.  With a genteel nod of her head that belied nothing of the intimacy they had shared during the night, Arwen parted from Legolas and moved toward the stairs.  In moments, he heard the whisper of her gown upon the floor and heard a soft giggle as what laughter had been inspired by her talk with Legolas had not yet subsided.

"What was it made you laugh?" he asked, feeling near chuckling himself with the immense lightness of heart he felt.

"I tried to thank Legolas for his attentions last night," she answered.

"Tried?"

"He thanked me before I could thank him."  She pressed a hand to her lips, silencing the return of her mirth.

"Why did he do that?"

Arwen looked up at him, her expression suddenly so open and affectionate it was almost painful to gaze upon.  "My lord Aragorn," she said silkily, "my dear King Elessar, surely you realize Legolas enjoyed his time with you last night."

Aragorn felt his face flush hot.  "I had not thought of it."

Arwen's eyes narrowed slyly.  "I do not believe you."  His lovely wife smiled prettily, watching with dazzling eyes as a trio of attendants brushed past them, hauling a full wardrobe.  He felt their curious glances.  "They all wonder at the change in you," she said softly, moving up behind him and sliding her hands around his waist.  "They wonder what could have happened to the king overnight to cause such a hasty departure."

"That is why I am keeping them busy: so they will not have time to ask."  He smiled enigmatically, turning in her arms to hold her close.

"Ah, but the journey home is a long one," she said, smirking.  "What will you answer when your advisers find their nerve and ask, 'King Elessar, why so sudden?  What happened that night?'"

"I will tell them," he mused, his expression falling serious, "I will tell them that I was shown a sight that forced beauty onto the spectrum of my vision once more."  He smiled genuinely at her, the expression feeling natural once again.  She welcomed his lips against hers in a sweet kiss.  Arwen held his face in her hands and it did not escape his notice that the pressure of her fingertips was weaker than usual.  

"Ai, Aragorn," she breathed.  "I would not be so weary this morning if only a language existed which would allow me to express the depth and breadth of my love for you in words."

He grinned.  "For my part, I hope such a language never exists."

***

Legolas stood watching the troupe of Men and horses travel along the narrow path out of Rivendell.  Already, the forms of Arwen and Aragorn at the head of the exodus grew distant in the shadow of the valley to even the Elf's sharp eyes.

"Aragorn's spirits seemed much improved," the Dwarf beside him observed.

"I believe they were," Legolas answered.

A small rock skidded off the precipice, kicked idly by Gimli's sturdy boot.  "You," he said with a grumbling cough, "you are a good friend, Legolas."  

The Elf turned to him and something in the weathered, bearded face told him that the Dwarf knew far more than he'd been told.  A warm grin split Legolas' features.  "Thank you, Gimli."

"But you Elves are an odd lot."

"What particular oddity has caught your censure this time?"

"Not my censure; my concern only," Gimli replied.  "You give your heart too freely."

"'Giving' implies a transfer of ownership, a transfer of care; that is not easily done, nor is it especially wise to do so.  No, my heart belongs to me, Gimli – or at the most, to you."

Gimli pursed his lips and let out an amused snort, hearing the jest in his friend's voice.  "Keep it.  You pull your own weight, Elf," he said.  "I have enough to carry as it is."

Smiling, Legolas looked back out to the valley, watching in silence as Aragorn rode his horse from the dark valley into the sunlight.  Wordlessly, he and Gimli turned, their actions in sync as they often were.

"So, you wish to learn how to wield a 'common club?'" his friend asked as they walked from the overlook.

"Only because it seems to take little effort and would therefore be an ideal diversion for me today."

"I see," Gimli muttered fondly.  "Well, a dwarf-axe might be too much for a beginner.  Perhaps we could find something more suited an amateur."

"An Elf-axe?" Legolas suggested.

"An Elf-axe?"  Gimli let out a loud guffaw.  "An Elf-axe!  Yes, perfect.  Where do we find one of those?"  The two friends continued down the path, walking toward the gardens of Rivendell.

***

The End

Thank you again for reading.  We've had a great time!


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